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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27479014">Put Your Head on My Shoulder</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlinminds/pseuds/darlinminds'>darlinminds</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, One Shot, and has a man bun, diner!nessian, motorbiker!cassian, what more could you possibly want, yes he wears a leather jacket</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:55:54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,429</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27479014</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/darlinminds/pseuds/darlinminds</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Some mostly fluffy Nessian for you.<br/>Nesta works at Velaris, a local diner, and Cassian is part of a visiting motorbike group. They're cute and dance to jukebox songs.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Nesta Archeron/Cassian</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>49</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Put Your Head on My Shoulder</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>
  <span>Nesta could probably make chocolate milkshakes with her eyes closed. Two years working at Velaris, the local diner, meant Nesta was a pro at everything unhealthy - pancakes, ice cream sundaes and bacon. Lots of bacon. The diner probably hadn’t changed since the 70’s, the chequered floor, red bar stools and leather booth tables practically straight out of a movie. Various LED signs and other vintage clutter tied the look together. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The music hasn’t changed either,</span>
  </em>
  <span> Nesta thinks, smoothing down the front of her blue uniform, before grabbing what felt like the 4 billionth plate of pancakes that day. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dancing Queen</span>
  </em>
  <span> by </span>
  <em>
    <span>ABBA</span>
  </em>
  <span> played from the jukebox again, and she mentally cursed whoever’s decision that was. Before the diner Nesta was all down for ABBA, she even encouraged it. Now, she had a tendency to throw things at anyone who dared to put them on outside of work.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It had been a long day, Fridays always were. She’d started at 8am, intending only to work until 5pm and then retreat home, to her bed, where literally any film other than Grease was waiting for her. Her dreams of a nest of 3 blankets and pizza were crushed when her colleague, Alis, called in sick. Being one of the only staff members not raring to go out on a rager this evening, Nesta was given the extra hours.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nesta used to be a partier, especially at college, but her friends had all moved away to their jobs, and she was still here, left working in Velaris. Her sister’s regularly complained at her lack of willingness to socialise outside of work, but the long day’s left her so drained by the time she returned home her social battery was completely depleted. Snuggling up with her cat, because </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course</span>
  </em>
  <span> Nesta was a cat person, was much preferable to pretending to enjoy herself in a club full of sweaty bodies. Also, Atticus had yet to judge her for her ability to eat copious amounts of chocolate.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Although cuddling Atticus might not be an option, he was likely to be extremely pissed she wasn’t home yet. Feyre would tell Nesta it was because she spoiled him. Feyre was a dog person. Nesta thought that said it all. Her boyfriend followed her around like a lost puppy, at least, which greatly amused her oldest sister.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A table of rowdy teenagers filtered out of the door, chatting animatedly about some party they were going to and how ‘John </span>
  <em>
    <span>totally</span>
  </em>
  <span> has a thing for you, Liv. For </span>
  <em>
    <span>sure</span>
  </em>
  <span>!’ </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nesta had half a mind to let the brunette girl they were talking to, presumably Liv, know that any boy with a J name was probably bad news. But, they’d tipped pretty well, and they could learn this life lesson for themselves.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a while after the teens leave, it’s slow. Most families have left to get their kids in bed, due to the latening hour, and Velaris wasn't exactly a hotspot for clubbers. Nesta wipes down the till surface absentmindedly, as the sound of </span>
  <em>
    <span>The Mamas &amp; The Papas</span>
  </em>
  <span> washes over her. The song is immensely calming, and she internally thanks whoever had control of the jukebox. As it’s past 10pm, the intensity of the lights have been turned down. </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Setting The Mood’</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Nesta’s boss would claim. Nesta wasn't entirely sure it was possible to set The Mood in a diner, but the lowlight is definitely preferable. Everything seem slower in the dim light, Nesta’s brain destresses slightly. She’s almost made it to the end of the day.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Then, Nesta’s least favorite part of Friday evening arrives. She can hear them before she sees them, the distinct sound of engine’s revving on the highway. They turn up like clockwork every Friday evening, around 10:30pm. Perfectly choreographed, the 15 or so motorbikers arrive in all their leather-clad glory. As they pull up to stop, their tyres spin in the gravel car park, sending pebbles flying into the air. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Obnoxious bastards</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Nesta thinks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They dismount and Nesta watches as they meticulously examine each other’s bikes. Tonight, they’ve congregated around a silver bike, she’s not great with motorbike terminology, presumably owned by the man standing next to it. Most of them seem familiar, but Nesta doesn't think she’s seen him before. He’s chatting animatedly to the others, and one claps him on the back. With that, they walk towards the doors of the diner. Nesta very quickly busies herself, and pretends not to notice as the bell tinkles, announcing their arrival.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey,” one of the tallest men speaks to her. She slaps on her best customer service smile as he continues, “is our usual table in the corner okay?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course, I’ll bring you the menus over in a minute,” she replies. They always take the table in the corner, it’s the biggest and also the comfiest. As the diner is just them now, Nesta has to find a couple of useless jobs to do whilst they settle down. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She carries a stack of menus to the table, as well as sauces and anything else they might need. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You by yourself tonight, love?” Frank, one of the older bikers, asks. He’s a regular outside of the motorbike club. He and his wife would come to the diner every week, but since she passed away a year ago, it’s just him. Nesta’s smile is almost genuine, she likes Frank. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, Alis is ill,” she supplies, placing the menus on the table. A couple of the bikers throw her sympathetic glances at that. That is one thing she </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> like about this group; they listen to her when she talks. It was surprising how many customers would constantly disregard her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah, then we’ll have to try not to give you the runaround too much,” Frank smiles. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As he speaks, she’s acutely aware of the new member removing his leather jacket. She tries to look away from his arm muscles, which are practically straining against his t-shirt sleeve, only to notice the whirling swirls of tattoos making their way down to his wrists. She drags her eyes back up to his face, he’s talking to the petite woman with intimidating gray eyes next to him, and just as she’s about to force herself to stop being </span>
  <em>
    <span>extremely</span>
  </em>
  <span> unprofessional, he reaches around the back of his head to scrape his hair into a bun. </span>
  <em>
    <span>My God</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Now she’s definitely staring. One single strand escapes his hair-tie, but he doesn’t seem bothered. It dangles over his forehead, just touching the end of his nose. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nesta just about shakes her head to drag herself out of her reverie, and thankfully, no one has noticed. Apart from maybe Frank, who gives her a knowing raised eyebrow. She resists rolling her eyes at him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No matter how much he looks like a god, Nesta refuses to get involved with a biker. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll come back to take your order in a minute,” she states, walking away from the table, as composed as possible. She mentally curses herself the whole way back towards the cashier, it really should not take one marginally good-looking man to throw her off. Maybe Feyre and Elain were right, she should get out more. Nesta shakes off the idea. She rearranges the glasses behind the counter instead.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Man-bun biker, as Nesta has started internally referring to him, orders a cheeseburger and chocolate milkshake. As she serves the table, she very deliberately tries not to make eye contact with him whilst still providing good customer service. It’s a balancing act, and she’s nearly successful. Nearly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, are we okay to change the music on the jukebox?” His voice is slightly deeper than expected, but smooth and warm and silky. She blinks at him. His hazel eyes are expectant. Nesta realises she’s the one supposed to answer.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Uh, yeah of course,” she nods, trying desperately not to stammer. God, she feels like a pathetic teenager again. “Change it to whatever you want.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He nods his head in thanks and offers her a smile. She tries extremely hard not to look at his extremely straight teeth. She fails, obviously. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The table breaks back into chatter as she serves the rest of the food, all of them deep in debate over what song should be put on next. Someone suggests </span>
  <em>
    <span>Def Leppard</span>
  </em>
  <span>, which under usual circumstances Nesta would have no problem with, well</span>
  <em>
    <span> almost </span>
  </em>
  <span>no problem, but at 11:15 in the evening it wouldn't have been her first choice. Thankfully, Frank pushes for something more mellow, probably noticing her facial expression, and eventually they settle for </span>
  <em>
    <span>Waterloo Sunset</span>
  </em>
  <span> by </span>
  <em>
    <span>the Kinks</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Nesta’s happy with that decision.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rest of their meal goes by pretty smoothly, and for the most part their collective DJ-ing skills are pretty good. There’s a small wobble when Frank suggests</span>
  <em>
    <span> Baby </span>
  </em>
  <span>by </span>
  <em>
    <span>Justin Bieber</span>
  </em>
  <span>, which is violently shot down, but the man claims he’s just trying to stay ‘present’. Nesta secretly has absolutely no objection to </span>
  <em>
    <span>Baby</span>
  </em>
  <span>, she’s had the rap (if any self respecting musician could call </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> a rap) down since around the age of 12. Though, she’s not sure her potential rapping career is the way to Man-buns’ heart.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The majority of the bikers decide to head off at about midnight; Nesta thanks God she can close in an hour. Frank gives her a wave and a wink, and she shakes her head, smiling warmly at the man. The group really weren’t as bad as they could’ve been tonight, and Nesta almost smiles at the tip they’ve left her. Overall, it could’ve been worse.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She wipes down the table, her head completely somewhere else. She collects the cutlery, sauces and salt and pepper shakers absentmindedly. Doing this makes her realise how tired she actually is. This shift has been about four hours too long.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yawning, she pushes a loose strand of hair out her face with her elbow, and then turns to make her way back to the counter. She freezes. There are two people sitting on the bar stools, chatting serenely. They’re distinctive figures, and Nesta can make out Man-bun and the small woman that was next to him beforehand. Her feet are dangling, quite a distance away from the footrest on the barstool. Cursing herself for her poor customer service, she makes her way back over to the counter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” she places the items around the back of the counter and smooths back any flyaway hairs, “what can I get for you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He offers her a smile and then gestures to the women beside him, indicating for her to go first.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Could I get a black coffee, please?” She asks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The same for me please,” he tilts his head, trying to read her wonky name-tag, ”Nesta.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She likes the way he makes her name sound, dragging out the ‘s’.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course,” she responds, smiling and turning to make their drinks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Over the sound of the coffee grinder, she can hear snippets of the conversation they're having and tries to purposefully look extremely preoccupied. Nesta loves listening to other peoples’ conversations.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“...but I heard from Az…” He’s saying, looking slightly confused.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Azriel doesn’t know…” she explains. Apparently, it’s big information. Nesta adds more coffee beans to the grinder. They clunk around for a minute, disrupting more of what she can make out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... just think he has the right to know…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s his life… new things, Cassian,” the man seems slightly hurt by whatever revelation has taken place, but Nesta’s more concerned that she knows his name. Cassian. It suits him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know, Amren..” he runs a hand through his hair, the woman, presumably Amren, makes no effort to comfort him. “... Rhys should tell Az … brother...”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nesta almost stops grinding the beans at that. She swears she’s heard that name before. Rhys. Why is it so familiar?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“... you know Feyre will…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nesta knocks a mug off the counter at that. Her cheeks immediately warm. The grinder spins to a halt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry,” she apologises. The two share a glance, but try to make it seem like they’re not bothered. Nesta sets about sweeping up the ceramic shards on the floor. Their conversation continues, but slightly quieter and she can’t quite hear.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As she sweeps, Nesta tallies the number of Feyres she has ever met in her life. It’s a grand total of one. But, maybe it's a coincidence. She feels she has to ask, anyway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Did you say Feyre a minute ago?” she says abruptly, and slightly rudely, but neither of the two seem to care at her tone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cassian nods, confusion evident on his face. Amren is looking her up and down with an intensity that makes her want to shrink.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Feyre Archeron?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Another nod, laced with more intense confusion. Amren’s eyes widen ever so slightly as she scrutinises Nesta’s face, as if she’s linked the pieces together.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re Nesta, right? Feyre’s sister?” she concludes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sister?” Cassian is evidently shocked by this information, and looks between Amren and Nesta rapidly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nesta can’t quite decide if she’s offended that these people who know Feyre have absolutely no idea what she looks like. They’re not the closest sisters in the world, and they certainly have things that need working out, but she thought Feyre’s friends would at least know who she is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nesta nods, “I’m her older sister.” This information is pointlessly given, it's obvious she’s older than her 20 year old sister. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, as Feyre’s older sister I’m not sure we’re at liberty to tell you such information,” Cassian replies courteously, his eyes twinkling playfully, telling her he would like nothing more than to tell her exactly what secrets he is harbouring. Also noticing this, Amren elbows him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We can’t tell you,” she stresses, glaring pointedly at Cassian, who raises his hands in mock defense. “You’ll find out soon enough anyway.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This sparks Nesta’s interest, but gets the general message from Amren that this conversation is over. She sets the two, finally made, black coffees in front of them. They thank her, and as to avoid any further awkward conversation, Nesta decides to clean the tables on the other side of the room. There’s something strangely rhythmic about cleaning tables - but maybe that’s just down to Nesta’s current state of exhaustion. The three of them are the only ones left, and the music suddenly seems extremely loud. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She abandons her cleaning in favour of turning the jukebox off. Her finger hovers over the off button, when that smooth voice sounds from behind her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t turn it off.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nesta whirls around to face Cassian. He’s leaning against one of the tables, soft eyes on her. His leather jacket is on the table behind him, meaning his tattoos are on show. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I just wanted to let you know I’m off, Amren left a minute ago,” he explains, running a hand over his hair. For some reason, this is extremely attractive. “Thank you for a lovely evening, I’m sure you’ll be wanting to get home soon.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nesta laughs slightly, something quite unusual for her, “The only thing I have to get home to Atticus, but he’ll wait up for me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cassian’s face falls ever so slightly, “Atticus?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My cat.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s </span>
  </em>
  <span>that smile again. Just the sight of it fills her with warmth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m more of a dog person myself. Two rescues, Munch and Paddington.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Munch and Paddington?” The corner of her lip tugs slightly at the obscure names. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My friend’s daughter named them,” he explains, “she was three, eating cheerios and watching the film Paddington. I don’t really know what else I was expecting.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This makes Nesta laugh, “I think those names are </span>
  <em>
    <span>much</span>
  </em>
  <span> better than Atticus, although he is quite a prestigious cat, so it suits him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I would like to believe Munch, Paddington and Atticus would become fast friends,” he states, strolling towards her until he’s beside her. She breathes in for a moment and then realises he’s not approaching her, but the jukebox.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Any particular music requests?” He asks, fiddling with the machine. The tattoos extend to his fingers, which Nesta finds particularly intriguing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ve heard it all, surprise me,” she replies, watching as he skips past the </span>
  <em>
    <span>ABBA</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Thank God.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hmmm,” his eyes dart over the machine. Nesta’s staring at his side profile, the straightness of his nose, his jawline, his cheekbones and his incredibly long eyelashes. Who gave this man the right to have eyelashes that nice?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What do you work as?” She asks. It’s obvious what her job is, therefore it’s only fair she knows what his is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m actually a teacher. History.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Of all the things she was expecting him to say, that was not up there. It’s quite surprising, but extremely attractive. She’s almost tempted to ask if that has anything to do with his tattoos - they're nothing like she’s ever seen before; but then decides that’s slightly too personal this quickly, and leaves it for another time. The thought of ‘another time’ makes her quite excited. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Here,” he decides, as </span>
  <em>
    <span>Can’t Take My Eyes Off You </span>
  </em>
  <span>by </span>
  <em>
    <span>Franki Valli </span>
  </em>
  <span>starts playing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nesta adores this song, but contains her excitement by nodding appreciatively. He offers her a hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do you dance?” He says softly, those brown eyes fixed on hers. It’s absolutely impossible to say no to him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not usually,” she starts, but takes his hand anyway. The calluses of his fingers are slightly rough against her hand, but extremely comforting. His hands absolutely dwarf hers. “But, I think I’m willing to make an exception for you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cassian absolutely beams at her as he pulls her close to him. The height of him is suddenly extremely obvious. Nesta’s not short by any stretch of the imagination, but Cassian can still place his head on top of hers comfortably. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They don’t dance so much as sway. It’s beautiful. Cassian makes her feel held, something Nesta hasn’t felt properly since she was an extremely small child. The thought of it almost makes her emotional. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m… I don’t… Why is this so comfortable?” She asks, slightly unsure as to how she feels as if she understands this practical stranger more than she knows herself.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cassian chuckles, “I don’t know, sweetheart. But it’s nice.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She hums in agreement. He twirls her, making Nesta laugh. This is the most carefree she’s felt in years. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They dance through about seven more songs, and somehow Nesta’s head ends up on Cassian's chest, who’s hummed along to all the songs. He has a deep hum, vibrating deep in his chest. His arms envelop her. Nesta adores this, managing to ignore the little voice in the back of her head telling her this is too good to be true.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She thinks about how Cassian feels like home, instead.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re thinking too hard, Nes. I can hear your brain whirring,” Cassian chuckles, sending vibrations down to where Nesta’s cheek is rested against his t-shirt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pulls away and beams up at him. As she looks up, she notices the clock on the wall behind him. 3:00 am. The time is like a bucket of water being thrown over her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You okay, sweetheart?” Cassian releases his arms from around her, giving her room. Like he understands immediately. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, yeah,” she says, trying not to stress, “I just left Atticus alone for so long.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She runs a hand through her hair. The poor boy will probably be wailing the house down.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Don’t worry. You have to lock this place up, right?” She nods, and Cassian gives her a reassuring smile, “well let's do that, and then we can go see Atticus.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We?” She questions, confused. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now Cassian looks slightly alarmed, “only if you want me too, of course, I wouldn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable in any way.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, yeah, of course you can come. I just wasn't expecting you to offer to help,” she explains, genuinely surprised. Nesta has had extremely limited experience with people offering to help her in life. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s what I’m here for,” Cassian assures her, “to help.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A warmth blossoms in Nesta’s chest, right next to her heart. She smiles at him as she explains what needs to be done to lock up. With Cassian, locking up takes about 2 minutes. They walk to the door together, hand in hand. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry for cutting your dancing time short,” she apologises.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shakes his head, some of his hair falls out of the bun. Nesta resists the temptation to reach up and push it out of his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We will have plenty of time to dance at Feyre and Rhysand’s wedding.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Feyre and Rhysand’s </span>
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    <span>WHAT </span>
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